


daisy lazy

by OrsFri



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dieselpunk, Gen, M/M, space-time continuum
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-06-09 21:14:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15276330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrsFri/pseuds/OrsFri
Summary: Ludwig leans forward to peer over the railings. “Do you think he’s dead?”In which the title is nonsense, Gilbert steals something important from a secret organisation, Ivan has no heart, Ludwig is TiredTM, and there's time-travelling.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Today, I want to say that  
> 1) Murphy’s law is absolutely real, and  
> 2) @lyf: you've done it, you sapped me dry

“Well fuck,” says Gilbert.

Ludwig leans forward to peer over the railings. “Do you think he’s dead?”

“Of course not.” He peers too, anyway, in a rare feat of optimism. The roof of the car is dented, the anti-theft alarms blaring as frightened passers-by gather around it, and Ivan seems like any old corpse sprawled over the metal. “We better leave before he gets back up.” Ludwig is frozen, eyes wide and fingers clenched tight around the metal; shock, Gilbert knows. “Come on.” He pulls at Ludwig’s arm. “We got to go _now_.”

Ludwig lets himself be pulled away, and they break into a run towards the back-door the moment they step out of the elevator. The hair on Gilbert’s neck is standing as though they are watched by a phantom, but Ivan can’t have gotten up already. Not yet. Not based on what Gilbert _does_ know about him, anyway, and Gilbert knows a lot these days. He knows enough to get both of them _hunted_ , and that’s where it all went wrong, isn’t it? Ignorance is fucking bliss, and Gilbert’s _not_ blissful, Gilbert’s fucked up big time, and look where they are now?

Look. Just look: what are they going to do now?

-

“Drive,” Gilbert orders, glancing skittishly towards the back.

Ludwig doesn’t look too happy to be ordered around. That, or he’s still a stickler for the rules even in such nerve-wracking times and does not want to drive a stolen car that Gilbert hotwired, but men pursued by one of the most notorious killers on the market can’t be fucking _choosers_ , can they? Some stupid top-twenties pop song starts blaring from the radio; Ludwig switches it off before it can thoroughly ruin the mood. He locks the car doors.

“Put on your seatbelt,” he reminds, and for a moment it all feels so perfectly mundane that Gilbert wants to scream.

He doesn’t. Men pursued by one of the most _notorious_ \- yeah, you get the point. Men on the verge of _death_ don’t have time for nervous breakdowns. He clips on his seatbelt and digs his nails into his knee as he watches Ludwig pulls out on the road, gradually picking up speed until they are on the expressway and out of the city.

“Where to?” Ludwig asks, jaws tense.

Gilbert doesn’t know. “Just drive,” he says, and that’s answer enough.

Ludwig drives.

-

They drive in silence until they are two cities away and the car complains that it is running out of fuel, because apparently they have the worse luck and stole from an owner that doesn’t keep their petrol tanks full.

Gilbert makes them pull over at a gas station. He waves away the jockey and releases his seat belt. “Ok,” he begins. “Ok ok _ok_. You’re going to wait here while I grab some stuff. See that guy over there?” Ludwig squints at where he’s pointing. “See, he’s leaving now to go into the minimart while that boy there takes care of his car. After the boy’s left and before the man’s back, I will steal his car. You’ll be lookout. Are we clear?”

“Brother,” Ludwig frowns. “I don’t think we should be doing this. What if -”

“Fun fact,” Gilbert interrupts, “if you want to live, you don’t have a choice. I know you’re a good citizen and you love rules and shit, but for once, _do this for me_.” He opens the car door, ignoring Ludwig’s attempt to protest. “Come on, I trust you, ok? You can do this.”

Ludwig thins his lips. He sucks in a deep breath through his nose; finally, he nods. Gilbert quashes the relief he feels as he closes the door, jogging towards the minimart to grab some perfunctory snacks and bottles.

He walks past the mark and slips his car keys - and his wallet too, just for kicks. He returns the wallet with only twenty bucks stolen. When he sees the jockey does his final wipe down, Gilbert rings up only the water and a packet of chips and slips out towards the car.

He’s _almost_ to the car when that prickling feeling of being watched caused him to hesitate in his approach. For a terrifying moment, Gilbert thinks that Ivan has caught up: but a glance at Ludwig only shows that Ludwig is wide-eyed and jittery, eyes darting between the mart and the other jockeys, one of which is walking towards Ludwig, and _oh_ , ok, Ludwig is helping by distracting the workers. That’s already more involvement than Gilbert is expecting and wow, Gilbert is _proud_ of how well he’s negatively influencing Ludwig. Take _that_ , Vati - big bad _shameful_ Gilbert is corrupting his _perfect_ model-son.

The car unlocks. Cranks it up, and it _purrs_ into life; Gilbert tosses the plastic bag towards the back before climbing over to sit shotgun, but not before turning the radio to something obnoxious. Ludwig must have made his excuses, because twenty seconds later he’s slipped behind the wheel and thirty seconds later switched off the radio. Again. _Rude_.

“Good job,” Gilbert praises. Ludwig’s shoulder loosens - just that tiny half-inch, but still. That’s the Ludwig that Gilbert knows, after all these years. “Ok, I know you’ll hate me for this but I also snitched a burner phone in there - no, don’t give me that look, I know what I’m doing, alright?” They pull out of the gas station and onto the road. “Thing is, I know you have a lot of questions and I will get to them, but like, Ivan back there, he’s working for some _powerful_ people. People who can use whatever resources to track us. That’s why we can’t withdraw any money and I tossed our phones -”

“You _what?!_ ” Ludwig immediately reaches into his pocket. “You -”

“Hands on the _wheel!"_  The car swerves aggressively back. “Look, if I told you, you wouldn’t have let me crushed it -”

“ _Why would you -_ ”

“- And knowing you, you probably backed everything up on cloud anyway, so your data will be fine!” Gilbert does not realise he’s shouting until he finds himself catching his breath. Ludwig is silent. His hands are gripping the wheel too tightly. “Come on,” Gilbert mutters. Ludwig’s knuckles are white. “I know I’m a shitty brother and unreliable as fuck and dragged you into my mess when all you wanted to do is go home and feed Etta, Leyna, and Schatzi[1], but just. Just trust me on this.” Then, more quietly, he adds, “Sorry.”

Ludwig doesn’t answer him for too long. Ludwig doesn’t answer him at all. But when the sun dips in the sky and the roads become smaller and sparser Ludwig turns to him and asks, calmly, “Do we pull over?”

This is as much forgiveness as Gilbert deserves to get. “No,” he admits tiredly, “he doesn’t stop even at night. We have to keep going. I’ll switch with you after sunset.”

“Ok,” says Ludwig, and there’s that, then.

-

It’s stupid, this whole thing. This whole story is stupid. _Stupid_.

The story begins like this: Gilbert steals something that he absolutely _shouldn’t_ have, and now he’s got Ivan, their best killer, going after him.

Correction: that’s not how the story began. That is more of a fork in the road, a trigger that spurs the next part of the plot, a poor decision and Gilbert’s _fucked up_ in the way only befitting to his characterisation, _oh look, what’s new_?

The story decidedly begins when Gilbert’s accept this mysteriously well-paying job at a research facility to help their engineers with the development of some machines. Gilbert’s a researcher and a physicist and all he wants is funding, so he says yes and takes the job.

Then he meets Ivan.

That, maybe, is where this story begins - Gilbert still thinks that the main reason is Vati cutting him out of the family and leaving him destitute, therefore rendering Gilbert amply _desperate_ for money and will lick up from the floor _anything_ that comes his way - but that is deviating from the core of the story.

The story is that Gilbert met Ivan, and this triggers a chain reaction of events that has him stealing something Gilbert _absolutely_ shouldn’t have, and it is _fate’s sadism_ that Ivan caught up _ahead of schedule_ on that one day when Gilbert meets with Ludwig out of sentimentality or some sappy shit like it, and look at where Gilbert is, look at where they _all_ are.

It’s fucking stupid.

-

It’s 3am and they are the only ones on the road. The trees are tall and hunching and the stars are actually visible. The radio is alternating between something old or something so indie that Gilbert can’t even place it’s genre, because that’s what 3am radio is.

Ludwig’s been dozing on and off beside him, startling awake occasionally and drifting back off after changing the audio. They’ve stopped only twice: once for dinner and coffee while Gilbert hurriedly checks some news and maps out some future plan while roadside diner wifi is available, and another for a toilet break, wherein Gilbert _finally_ buys a sim-card with data.

Ludwig hasn’t talked the whole time, which was fine. Gilbert’s cool with that. Gilbert’s the bad son and Ludwig’s the good son, and the good people don’t talk to the bad people. That’s just the way things work, _exactly_ like their relationship for the _past eight years_ since Gilbert got kicked out of the house. Gilbert’s a delinquent and stupid and it doesn’t matter that Gilbert aces all his papers in high school, because he’s got attitude problems and wants to study something stupid like _pure physics_ in university. And his family can put up with all that, _Vati_ can put up with all that, but in the end, Gilbert got kicked out because -

The car sputters to a stop.

“Fuck,” Gilbert murmurs, a growing sense of dread curdling in his chest. “Fuck, _fuck_! Start, you stupid car.”

Ludwig blinks blearily awake. “What’s going on?”

“We’re fucked.” Gilbert smacks the dashboard in frustration. “Unless this car moves _right now_ , we’re fucked.”

“Maybe there’s something wrong with the battery.”

“It is not,” Gilbert insists. “We’re unlucky, but not _this_ unlucky.”

Ludwig furrows his eyebrows. “When do you ever believe in luck?”

“Since I got into this mess.” Gilbert removes his seatbelt and inhales deeply. He should have known better and gotten themselves armed - man’s got a _track record._ “Ok,” he decides, reaching over to open the glove compartment. “How fast can you run?”

“I do jogs.” Ludwig shifts uncomfortably when Gilbert flashes out a Swiss Army knife in triumph. “What are you doing -”

There’s a heavy thump on the top of the car.

Gilbert holds his breath. Ludwig’s eyes are wide and, even if he won’t admit it later, tinted with fear.

(For a moment, Gilbert’s a young teen again, holding his kid brother’s hand and waiting outside the room where Mama is being operated on, while Vati paces and cusses loudly about drunk drivers even with blood trickling from his forehead, ignoring all attempts by the nurses to get his cut tended to.)

But then there’s another thump, and Gilbert’s back in the situation, back in reality. “I have so much I want to tell you,” Gilbert admits, “and so much more that I _should’ve_ said.”

“Brother.”

“Do you think we can throw him off again?” In both sense of the word.

“No.” Gilbert winces at the bluntness. “I don’t think we can even escape this time.”

“Yeah, well -”

Ivan tears off the roof of the car.

 _Fu -_ Gilbert tries to stab up at him, but Ivan grabs the knife by the blade. He does not bleed. Ludwig stares.

“You really should know better,” Ivan says, and is that fucking _pity_ that Gilbert senses in his voice?

“Fuck off,” snarls Gilbert, wisely.

“Unfortunately,” Ivan says, “I can't disobey direct orders,” and the last thing on Gilbert’s mind before it all goes to hell is _fuck, I really should have told Ludwig about this._

-

Gilbert wakes up in a dingy old room lit by the shaded orange of an incandescent light bulb and the muffled strains of raspy _jazz music_. He hurriedly sits up and checks his outfit. White dress shirt, suspenders hanging at his hips[2] , loosened wool tie, _boxers_.

This isn’t so bad. It could be worse. At least he’s not wearing a _union suit_[3]. That is one era he wouldn’t ever live down.

There’s a knock on the door; Gilbert hurried grabs the trousers from the floor (wide-legged, he notes absently) and hops into it. It cinches up high, and he spends another moment swearing as he tucks in his shirt as neatly as is possible with a wrinkled shirt that he’s _slept in_ , straightens his tie, and opens the door.

Ivan smiles back at him.

Gilbert slams the door shut.

On second thought, he opens the door again.

“Where’s my brother?” he demands immediately.

Ivan is a smart thing in this era of cinched waistline and broad shoulders, even if he’s wearing _cream flannel trousers_[4]. He didn’t skip the waistcoat, but he did skip the bottom button. It’s very flattering. “That’s rude,” Ivan deflects, and Gilbert’s eyes dart up. “No hello?”

“I mean it: I didn’t manage to warn him. _Where is he_?”

Ivan’s eyes drift off somewhere over Gilbert’s head. There’re some - _glimpses_ of dashing colours before Ivan focuses back on Gilbert. “He’s in one of the rooms. I don’t think he’ll be leaving it anytime soon.”

“You’re going to give Lutz a fucking _panic attack_.”

“Give your brother some credit, won’t you?” Ivan takes a step forward. Gilbert almost backs away until he catches himself. This is a man Gilbert’s _fucked_ , he shouldn’t be _intimidated_ by him, what is he - “Let him figure things out a little, _then_ we can go get him.”

“We?”

Ivan tilts Gilbert’s chin up with the edge of his knuckle with a gentleness so deliberate that it’s mocking. “Will you still try to run?”

“No,” Gilbert confesses, “there’s no point if they send _you_.”

Ivan drops his hand. “That’s good,” he says, “I don’t want us to fight.”

“Wow, that’s funny. That’s so fucking funny that I can’t even be angry at you.”

“You fought me first,” Ivan reminds, and oh really? Are they being so childish right now, pointing fingers and yelling _he started it?_ Ivan actually looks hurt when he accuses, “You tried to steal _my heart_.”

That is just unfair. “Wrong: it’s no longer your heart the moment you let them cut it out of you.”

Ivan scoffs. “Please - it only beats because _I’m_ alive.”

And isn’t all these so awfully _un_ scientific? Gilbert’s a physicist, a scientific man, and here’s this product of _pseudoscience_ standing right infront of him like a mockery of his expertise. “I didn’t manage to grab it in the end.” Gilbert shifts his weight. “Happy now?”

“No: you stole something far worse.” A sigh. Ivan crowds in until Gilbert can feel his breath brushing against the lobe of his right ear, the tip of the jaw where it curves into the neck, and _fuck_ , Ivan’s too close, Gilbert’s body is _confused_. “What are you thinking?”

Gilbert thinks many things, especially at the very moment when he decides to _fuck it_ and steals and has his whole world crashing down on him, but - “Are?”

“Are,” Ivan confirms, and no, his body is no longer confused now, it wants one thing and Gilbert is _adamant_ that this is not the right time. “I don’t care why you stole, I only care about retrieving it and you.”

Gilbert delicately side-steps Ivan. Ivan lifts both arms and wets inhales deeply through his nose like the most universal display of a fed-up man. “Then why send us here?” Gilbert gestures around him. “I’m certain this isn’t _direct orders._ ”

“No.” Ivan’s stare is never burning: it feels something more like a shard of ice, permafrost growing from within and sending the senses buzzing before going numb. “Aren’t you glad?”

No, of course not. Just when Gilbert thinks he’s figured out Ivan, Ivan turns around and throws him another bone. Ivan keeps him guessing, and that’s not a good thing when Gilbert needs certainty and solutions and many, many plans to help figure himself out of this mess. “You didn’t answer me: why?”

“Maybe,” answers Ivan, “I’m curious as to _what_ can make a man like you throw everything he’s finally had away.” His voice drops, a quiet murmur. “This is not like you, Gilbert.”

Perhaps not, but Gilbert does what he has to do. “Then try to keep up,” Gilbert snaps. “Now let’s find my brother and try to get us all out of here alive.”

Gilbert grabs his coat, hesitates, then grabs his _overcoat_ before stalking down the corridor. Then he realises he’s in his socks, and has to march back into his room to slip on his shoes before continuing to stomp down the path, ignoring the tittering patrons and curious maids.

He almost missed it, but there’s a door with the number 0310[5], and science has always been _very_ pragmatic after all. He stares up uneasily at it, Ivan a mute presence two steps behind him.

Ivan presses a hat onto his head - taken out of his room, no doubt, to make sure that Gilbert blends in with the current fashion. “Go on,” he urges, “knock on the door.”

“What if he doesn’t take it well?”

“Then it’s too late for you to do anything but try your best to make up for it,” Ivan simpers.

Gilbert gives himself three full seconds to mentally collect himself. Then he raps sharply on the door. He waits. No sound nor movement is heard from inside.

“What -”

“He’s inside,” Ivan confirms. “Probably being cautious.”

… Which makes sense. No one will knock on Ludwig’s door except people of the era or people who know that he’s _not_ from the era, and either party does not bode well for Ludwig, what with his absolute ignorance (courtesy of Gilbert) regarding the situation.

“Do I knock it down?” Ivan adds.

“Y -” The door unlocks. Ludwig peers out. “Oh, hey.”

“Brother.” The relief is so blatant on Ludwig’s face that guilt bubbles up Gilbert’s throat. “I -” He catches sight of Ivan and immediately blanches.

“No, no, he’s on our side,” Gilbert hurriedly explains, “for now.” Ludwig doesn’t look convinced. “I’ll explain later. Just let us in?”

For a heart-stopping moment, Gilbert thinks Ludwig is going to refuse when he slams the door shut. Then there’s the sound of the chain being unlocked, and the door opens again. Ludwig shifts aside to let them enter.

The cupboards are open and searched, and so are the drawers. Someone’s done their investigation.

Gilbert flops onto Ludwig’s bed. “So,” he begins, and has to swallow his words so that he doesn’t laugh at the sight of Ludwig wear a _polo shirt, whaaaaat._ “So we are currently in the 1930s. Literally. We are back in history.”

Ludwig perches on a chair, shoulders so tense that it’s bulging. Ivan hovers by the closet, casually searching through the selections as though browsing clothes at the stores or something. “Does this have to do with what you have been doing for the past eight years?”

“Yeah, pretty much.” Gilbert clears his throat. “It’s a long story.”

“No, tell me.” Ludwig’s hand twitches, as though he’s about to fidget and has to cut himself off. “I… want to know how you’ve been.”

“It’s not much. After Vati cut me off, I uh, I've been trying to make do with just the scholarship money, and _then_ scrimped even more with the stipend, you know?” Gilbert gestures wildly around him. Ludwig nods. “Right. ‘Cause I finished my studies ahead of schedule and went into research because _why the fuck not?_ Except it doesn't pay very well even though our papers are doing very good, and this, this company starts singling us out to offer us jobs. I took it because I _need_ money, and it's easy at first when all I'm doing is helping the engineers mess with their machines, but hey, turns out they're messing with space-time continuum and other _illegal_ _things_ , so here we are!” Gilbert laughs awkwardly. Ludwig looks even more rigid.

“So you worked for a facility that sends people back into the past,” Ludwig interprets slowly. “That sounds…”

“Fake? Like something out of a movie?” Gilbert chortles. “Oh boy, you don’t believe me at all, do you?”

“You can’t expect me to believe this _science-fiction_ -”

“Oh, it’s science-fiction alright,” Gilbert cuts him off, “it’s science-fiction with roots from the _nineteenth century_ when people still use cannabis and _chloroform_ in their cough syrup[6] , except these people actually made something work but kept silent about it even up till today.”

Ludwig frowns. “Why would they do that when publicising it could create actual impacts, or earn them fame?”

Gilbert laughs even harder. “Fuck, do you really think something like _that_ matters to people like _them_?” Ivan is staring at Ludwig like Ludwig is a foolish puppy that has just done something endearingly stupid. “ _They_ don’t care about the rest of the world - they care only about how far they can go, and the answer is, _very fucking far_.” He gestures at Ivan. “We have a case study _right here_ : Mr. Super Soldier, created through occult rituals and some crazy amount of science - I don’t know, I’m not a biologist, but tada! Here’s a man who has no heart and who _can’t die_!”

Apparently that’s the wrong thing to say, because the veins are visible on Ludwig’s temple as he growls, “Are you _messing with me_?”

“Well it doesn’t matter what I say if you already _decide_ not to believe in _anything_ I say!”

“That’s because it’s not true! I’m no longer a _child_ , brother. I don’t buy into your lies anymore.” Ludwig stands, now, tall and looming and it’s _embarrassing_ , the way it triggers Gilbert’s flight-or-fight. A Gilbert from a year ago would become defensive; a Gilbert from _eight years ago_ would aggravate the issue by agitating his opponent - but Gilbert’s not the same man anymore. In hindsight, that’s kinda sad - except Gilbert’s never one to regret. He scratches the back of his scalp instead in frustration and leans back in his chair.

He hasn’t noticed that Ivan’s stepped close until Ivan speaks. “Maybe,” Ivan begins, voice too loud beside him, and Gilbert jumps, “you should sit back down.”

Ludwig purses his lips, but complies without hesitation. He inhales deeply. “You said you owe me an explanation.” This to Gilbert.

“No shit.” Gilbert rests his elbows on his knees. “I’m not very good at explanations, but I’m not lying. Didn’t you see how Ivan _survived_ a fall from the twenty-fourth story and grabbed a blade with his _bare hands_?”

Ludwig coughs. “I did watch the second Terminator movie.”

“Yeah, but Ivan isn’t an android, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Gilbert side-eyes Ivan. “He’s a hundred percent human flesh. And magic, probably. I don’t know what makes him tick.”

“No one knows,” Ivan agrees, “but that is none of your business.”

Ludwig visibly raises his hackles. Gilbert hurriedly dismisses it with a wave of his hand. “That’s just how he speaks, don’t mind him. Thing is, Ivan’s one of a few that can, you know, _time-travel_. Just grabs people and sends them tumbling through space-time with him. But he can’t control anything else, like which period of time or which part of the world and shit, and he can’t land at the same time and place a second time anyway. Which is where the machines come in to fine-tune everything. And where I come in, yeah?

“Except sending people through time - no matter _what -_ is going to create paradoxes. Not in the way you’re thinking! But. Paradoxes. 'Cause someone's a nerd in the research team.” Gilbert swallows. “So if we don’t, uh, figure out how to get out of here soon, we’re going to die.”

Ludwig blinks. “Because of… paradoxes?”

“It’s true,” Ivan concurs, “because the past can’t be changed. Any attempts will have to be eradicated. It’s the law of the universe.”

“The only way to get back to the previous spacetime the exact way we have left it is to find the - they call it the wormhole, which isn’t exactly accurate, but it helps us visualise. I prefer to call it a portal, because that accommodates the supernatural bit and doesn’t fuck up my understanding of science,” Gilbert finishes. “I mean, if you want, go grab a drink downstairs and enjoy yourself a bit or something while the night lasts, but we got to go before the paradox catches up with us.”

“I,” Ludwig begins, and then shakes his head. “I’m sorry, this is a lot to take in.”

“Yeah, well.” Gilbert slaps both palms on his thigh as he stands. “I’ll leave you to that. If you need us, we’ll be downstairs. At the bar. Chilling.” Ludwig stares. “Yeah, so I’ll just...” He shuffles towards the door. “Just don’t panic, ok?”

Ludwig nods slowly. “I’ll… compartmentalise.”

“Yeah.” He inches backwards, his shoulder blades pushing the door open. Ivan sighs and slides past him to open the door fully, which is - is Gilbert _that_ painful to watch? “So I’ll be going -”

“Just go, brother,” says Ludwig. His eyes are closed. “Please.”

Gilbert hesitates at the door. Ludwig suddenly seems so vulnerable, even in that pretentious blue-coloured polo shirt and dull grey trousers like a Clark Kent wannabe, and it’s just. To Ludwig, Gilbert suddenly realises, it must have felt like abandonment: Gilbert suddenly _gone_ without explanation, with no visits or attempts to reach-out _at all_ for the past eight years, and _Gilbert’s such a shitty brother_ , isn’t he? He didn’t try - he didn’t try _enough_ for Ludwig, who’s left behind to fulfil expectations too great for someone who tries so hard at everything.

“I’m sorry,” Gilbert says, and after closing the door, stares at the patterns of the wood for a minute and an eternity until Ivan mutters, “Let’s go.” 

Gilbert puts on his coat before trudging down the stairs after him.

-

The girl that approaches them is a slip of a thing. She smirks at Gilbert, and Gilbert leers back. “Hello,” she drawls.

Ivan casually puts his arm across Gilbert’s back and grips Gilbert’s shoulder _tight_.

And then Ivan _smiles_.

Gilbert does not need to look to sense the hostility in that.

“Oh,” says the girl, and it is with no small amount of trepidation that she flees from them.

“Is this really necessary?” Gilbert whispers as Ivan drops his arm. “I once got the shit beaten out of me for _not_ fucking a girl, what makes you think I’ll fuck one now?”

“I didn’t think you were a thief too,” says Ivan placidly, “but look where we are now.” And he’s got a point, Gilbert has got to give him that. “People change.”

“Maybe.” They settle at a table with a good view of the stairway, although that blocks their view of the stage. “But even if I decide to go with her, you don’t have the right to stop me.”

Ivan fishes out a packet of cigarette from his trousers pocket, and a lighter from his shirt’s. Lights it up. The smoke curls like a snake in the air and mingles with the smoggy atmosphere of the room. “I don’t have the right?” he echoes.

“Don’t give me that,” Gilbert hisses, “you tried to _kill my brother and me_.”

“That’s different.”

“Are you serious?” Gilbert gapes incredulously. “I can’t - you sleep with a guy  _once_ and he’ll think you owe him -”

“If you get her pregnant, the paradox will make sure she loses it, and I don’t think girls of this era need anymore hardship in their lives,” Ivan snaps, and oh, ok. Gilbert isn’t expecting that. “Not everything is about you.” Ivan is being so perfectly _reasonable_ that it’s almost infuriating, if Gilbert isn’t so _wrong_. “But some part is about you,” Ivan amends, and yeah, that’s the pettiness that Gilbert’s come to expect.

“Yeah, but I wasn’t ever going to do anything, ok? So fuck off.” Gilbert grabs a glass off a passing waiter’s tray and downs it. It’s probably uncouth as fuck, but Gilbert’s never one for manners when it comes to his food. He slams the glass down and ignores the prickly sensation of Ivan’s stare.

Ivan calls more drinks for them; Gilbert nurses this one.

The time drags, and Gilbert allows his mind to wander. Soaking it all in: the music, the ambience, the bittersweet smoke in the air and in the lungs, the rush of beautiful silhouettes and swarthy clothes, all the lonely people lost in the dust of time yet made all the more real with their misery, their poise and poignancy even while marinating in the thick of Great Depression despondency - Gilbert can understand, sort of, why people will want to travel back in time to experience this. Its charm lies in its glorious helpless zeitgeist, the mood swirling with apprehension of the anguish to come.

“Gilbert,” Ivan says, and Gilbert blinks, back from his thoughts. Ivan pushes his box of cigarette across the table. And what the fuck, if you can’t beat them and their second-hand smoke, might as well join them, right? He holds a stick between his lips and leans in to light it from the spark of Ivan’s cigarette.

Up close, Ivan’s lashes are long but straight, hard stiff lines like that of his back, the scars across his chest, over his _heart,_ and -

Gilbert leans back in his chair.

Ivan is watching him, as though if he stares hard enough he can see through Gilbert - or see into him. Same thing, these days. “I can’t figure you out,” Ivan utters, “what do you think you can get out of this?”

“A peace of mind.”

Ivan snorts. “Too late,” he mocks, and looks back at the stage before Gilbert can respond.

Gilbert turns away.

-

  
  
Footnotes!

[1]They’re his dogs. Etta: little one. Leyna: little angel. Schatzi: treasure, sweetheart, usually used for girlfriends ^  
[2] If you need a mental picture, see[bottom right](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/d3/fd/c9/d3fdc994fd327d3cc7ec6929b04c8c73.jpg) for reference ^  
[3][This](https://content.artofmanliness.com/uploads/2013/06/unionsuit.jpg) is a union suit ^  
[4]This chapter is 90% fashion and me bashing at the laptop screaming NO I MEAN I WANT TO KNOW WHAT PEOPLE USE IN HOUSEHOLDS, NOT WHAT IS SHOWCASED AT THE NEW YORK WORLD FAIR. Anyway, [cream flannel pants.](https://i.pinimg.com/236x/10/b8/61/10b861103a7e4ab35b68879225c90687--men-summer-fashion-summer-fashions.jpg) ^  
[5]Third of October 1990 is the date of German Reunification/German Unity Day. ^  
[6]Nineteenth century medicine is why I will never completely disregard folk remedies or alternative medicine, because [_what else did they mix in there??_](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/46/9b/4b/469b4bed397362a1be9a8bfaa5d7f5ea.jpg) ^

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I never knew how reliant I am on all the friendly comments and people until I lose them, so thank you, all of you, for sticking with me and actually reading my bullshit
> 
> 2) also this is shameless but i accidentally deleted my tumblr account but i got back the [url](https://orsfri.tumblr.com), so uh it’ll be nice if someone can just. Come say hi or something. Oh gosh i’m so bad at this
> 
> 3) i have no idea where this is going but the world-building came so easy, this is one fic that i’m going to sit back and let it take me through the circles of hell
> 
> 4) anyway if you’ve read all the way till here, just wanna say ily, please have some good vibes in these trying days
> 
> edit: i know “Vati” is kinda old-fashioned, but in this fic, the Beilschmidt bro’s father is an old-fashioned man


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's highlights include: German bros being bros, background/past RusPru sadly does not actually appear in this chapter, and Ludwig's PoV reveals that local German is a sad, sad boy who needs a break. Like seriously really.

Gilbert has always been a skilled liar where it matters, and that’s how Ludwig knows that Gilbert’s not lying.

Gilbert... Gilbert’s false bravado and egoistic exaggeration have always been so transparent: teenage _stupidity_ so obvious even to people who don’t know where to look. But when it comes to things that matter, truths that truly _hurts_ -

Ludwig presses the heels of his palms against both eyes.

There is no way Gilbert can pull off _staging_ the past day, anyway, Ludwig reasons, hands trailing against the edges of the vanity. Unless it's all a psychedelic acid trip and Gilbert's _drugged him..._ but no. His brother’s changed, but he couldn't have changed _enough_ to drug his own brother, can he?

Or maybe Ludwig’s dreamt it all up. But Gilbert _knows_ what he dreamt about - and perhaps Gilbert only knows because Ludwig’s still dreaming, even now, his brain spinning stories - then isn't it best to abide by the dream’s logic and see where it takes him, since there's no consequence anyway?

But that doesn't explain Ivan.

(Ivan, _Ivan_ , strange and terrifying, a chunk from his brother’s life never meant to be seen; calm and confident, a predator toying with prey as he smiles down at them. Smiles when he draws the pistol at the café, smiles when he delivers a shot meant to miss, the quick flash of teeth when Gilbert manages to trip him over the railing.

Smiles down from the roof of the car, shadows of snakes swirling behind his eyes, strange melancholy in the curl of his lips.)

Ivan is a man that Ludwig can't create, no matter how whimsical his brain may be in dreams. He has too many dimensions tucked over each other for a simple dream-character.

The logical conclusion is that either Ludwig is going mad, or this is true, and he needs to analyse all his facts.

Gilbert’s not telling him a lot of things, Ludwig decides, straightening his back. His explanation is a fumbling mess, but even then Ludwig can spot the holes in every sentence.

But Ludwig knows Gilbert well enough to know that there are things Gilbert _won’t_ talk about, and Ludwig _is_ his brother’s charge. Conversation... is not his niche. If it’s important, Gilbert will come to tell, in time. A benefit of a doubt.

He pulls open a drawer and pockets the letter-opener that he’s spotted while searching the room. The edges are blunt, but in a pinch and with the right pressure, it may be useful - at least, until he finds something more practical. Ludwig pockets it; it clinks against the pair of dice he’s found in his trousers when he first woke up. Ludwig doesn’t know why he keeps them, except that he’s got a hunch that he _should._

There’s a knock on the door. It doesn’t sound like the rap that Gilbert makes from just now. Ludwig hesitates - but if they _are_ in the past, will it seem suspicious if he doesn’t get the door? He lingers by it. Grabs the blazer from the coat rack, because Ivan has been wearing one and Gilbert is holding his own on his arm, and that seems as much a hint as anything that Ludwig should attempt to fit in.

“Evening, sir,” says the stranger when Ludwig creaks open the door. “This is room service. May I enter your room, sir?”

There is a little something _off_ about the man, something about how everything does not quite fit standard operating procedure. Ludwig tightens his grip on the knob. “I’d rather not.”

The man nods, his expression unchanging. “As you wish.” He steps back and raises the tray from the trolley with great familiarity, and _perhaps_ Ludwig is being paranoid. “Here is your dinner, sir.”

Ludwig inches the door a little wider. The man continues smiling. For a moment, it reminds him of Ivan: the polite smile that does not reach the eyes, the calm detachment that unnerves Ludwig so much when he first sees Ivan in the crowd because Ivan simply feels less _human,_ his every action practised and scripted.

And perhaps this is the source of the apprehension that has Ludwig watching a little more closely for _any_ hint of judgement or frustration at Ludwig’s idiosyncrasies as Ludwig accepts the tray. “Thank y-”

The man smiles wider, and there are shadows of _something_ swimming in his eyes.

Ludwig lurches back and tries to slam the door shut, but the man hurriedly wedges his foot against the door arch. He does not flinch. It is as though he does not feel pain.

( _Super soldier,_ Gilbert calls Ivan, Gilbert _explains_ Ivan.)

But Ivan has personality, emotions and feelings that rears its head ever so occasionally. The man trying to squirm himself into Ivan’s room _does not._

Ludwig wrestles to force the door close, or at the very least, trap the man by the door. The man’s face twists with ugly fury that does not reach those blank, swirling eyes, and when Ludwig tries to shove him back the man _claws_ at the air, makes for Ludwig as he squeezes himself a further inch in.

Ludwig’s hand fumbles for his pocket -

Someone grabs the man by the hand and pulls him backwards, the door slamming shut loudly from Ludwig’s weight. There is a crack and the sound of bones crunching. Ludwig’s breathing is frightfully loud.

“Hey, it’s us,” Gilbert says. Ludwig wants to collapse in relief. “Open up?”

Ludwig has to try several times before he can stand upright without gripping on the door. When he opens the door, Ivan is holding the man by the waist like a ragdoll, his head hanging limp from an uncomfortable angle.

It takes Ludwig too long to realise that Ivan has snapped the man’s neck.

Ivan does not quite push, but rather _nudges_ his way past Ludwig. He’s being sensitive, Ludwig realises, and isn’t that surprising? Gilbert takes a step closer. “You alright?” he asks, and winces at the _thump_ as Ivan drops the corpse.

Ludwig nods.

“Right.” Gilbert wets his lips. “But, uh, apparently the paradox found us already so we’ve got to leave. Right now. Grab whatever you need.”

Ludwig turns around. The corpse is in the wardrobe. Ivan has grabbed a suitcase from the room and is stuffing it with... _scarves_?

Ivan also tosses the complimentary vodka and whiskey into it.

Ludwig turns back to Gilbert. “I don’t think there is anything more I need.”

“Great! Great, let’s go then.” Gilbert flashes a thumbs up over Ludwig’s shoulder. Signalling to Ivan, no doubt. “Oh, and grab your hat. And overcoat. I’m not hundred percent sure what’s the fashion these days.”

Ludwig complies wordlessly. They are all hurrying down the stairs, a fluster of three grown men scampering like jittery teenagers and earning themselves disdainful stares, when Ludwig finally questions, “That... is the paradox?”

“What? What, no, not exactly.” Gilbert narrowly dodges a waiter. “It’s more like - ok, so have you read Slaughterhouse-Five[6]? Yeah, thought you would. Anyway, the thing you need to wrap your head around after figuring out that time-travelling is _a thing_ is that nothing can and will change, no matter what you do, ok? Like how Billy came unstuck in time and learns that the Tralfamadorians see humans as this long centipede creature with no free-will, yada yada, because the end is already written.

“ _Don’t_ freak out about this, because there’s nothing you can do about it, so just continue living your life.” Gilbert pushes the door open and heads left; Ivan grabs him by the shoulder and twists him towards the right.

The autumn wind is a bitter thing, and it pierces Ludwig’s skin as though trying to crack open the surface, mudcrack patchwork. When they break into a run on the road, Gilbert conveniently snitches a cup of coffee straight from the hands of a gentleman and flipping him off as Ivan ushers them into a taxi before taking shotgun himself. Ivan mutters something to the driver that Ludwig can’t catch, but Gilbert seems calm about it, and Gilbert _worked_ with Ivan, so Ludwig takes it as cue that Ivan is unlikely to lead them to some deserted alleyway so that it will be easier to dispose of their murdered corpses.

“Where was I - ok, so no free will right?” Gilbert continues, switching to German. “Thing is, our presence _changes_ the past, and that’s a big no-no. So the universe sends this, this _thing_ called the paradox to eliminate anomalies like us and keep everything in order. I call it the _death worm_ though. Seems more fitting.”

Ivan twists around in his seat. “Please understand that if you ever see the paradox, run very, _very_ fast,” he advises, and although his German is spoken so deliberately careful that it is clearly unfamiliar, the fluency still surprises Ludwig.

“Then what’s that man -”

“Oh, him?” Gilbert shrugs. “Remember how I said the end is already written? Well, that guy is supposed to be dead already. Soulless and shit. So the universe, with its seeming lack of moral qualms, _possessed_ it to fish us out. You know.”

This sounds less like science-fiction and more like straight-out _fiction._ Ivan takes pity on his confusion. “We speculate that there’s a third-party,” he supplies, “and creatures like that man are not the universe’s laws at play at all. We’re still figuring out the details - everything is still very experimental. It may just be someone who hates people like us.”

“ _Really_ hates us,” Gilbert adds. “Just so you know, the percentage of deaths because of these possessed people being all stabby is pretty high. But anyway, it seems you managed to recognise that the guy is _evil_ -” Ivan rolls his eyes as he turns back forward, “- before we get there, so just keep an eye out for people with similar patterns and you’ll be fine[7]. Oh, and don’t feel bad about hitting them or anything, since they’re already dead.”

There is something to be said about preserving the sanctity of a human body even after death, but Ludwig is also someone who has agreed to donate all his organs in the event of death. “So,” Ludwig concludes slowly, and he feels almost incredulous as he says, “like _zombies_.”

Gilbert makes a face. “Yeah, actually.” He snorts. “ _Mind-controlled_ zombies.”

“I dunno what you boys are talkin’ about,” comments the driver, “but I have watched _White Zombie_[8] _,_ and we are far, far away from Haiti.”

“Ah, that show that was showing recently, wasn’t it?” Ivan replies amiably just as Gilbert blurts, “You can speak German?”

“Em, _meine Mutti_ is German,” says the driver, and cackles as Gilbert cheers, “but _me da_ is Irish. I play _me O’Irish accent up_ every time I want to annoy some limeys _._

“But you sound different.” The driver nods at Ivan. “Where are ya from?”

“From the distant east,” Ivan answers vaguely. Ludwig does not know this precise moment in global history well enough to understand Ivan’s avoidance, but he can guess.

“Ah, an émigré? Or just a temporary worker? I heard things are bad on the other side.”

“This and that,” Ivan allows, “but life goes on.” The driver accepts with a grunt.

They pull to a stop near a railway station; Ivan fishes out an acceptable amount of cash - complete with tip - and exchanges more mutters with the driver before letting him drive away. Gilbert pats Ludwig firmly on the shoulder. If it is meant to be assurance, it’s not very comforting.

“I’m fine,” Ludwig manages, and Gilbert pulls away.

“What did you say to him?” Gilbert demands warily as Ivan strides towards them. “Because I swear, if you try to _traumatise_ another dead man _again_ -”

“I asked for directions.”

“After you told him to drive us _to a train station?”_

“He’s a taxi driver,” Ivan reasons, “he's had weirder customers.”

“That’s... ” Gilbert purses his lips and shrugs. “That's fair. Still weird though.”

Ludwig has _so many_ questions. He wisely filters out the ones that need anything more than a one-word answer. “So where do we go?”

“North,” answers Ivan, “to return, we need to head North.”

Gilbert narrows his eyes. “Then why are we still standing here? You waiting for something?”

“I thought it defeats the purpose if I brought you all the way here only to deliver you back,” Ivan replies, pulling on his overcoat. Ludwig deftly follows suit. Gilbert, however, only tucks his hands into the fold even though his nose is turning red; spite, Ludwig supposes. “If this is what you are playing at, Gilbert, you are very smart.”

“Playing? I’m not _playing -_ I want to fucking _survive._ "

“No one has died under my watch yet,” Ivan notes absently, wandering over to a signboard that has the regional map painted on it, “unless I wanted them to.”

“Maybe you forgot, but you did _just try to kill us._ "

“I can’t bring corpses through time,” Ivan reminds, turning back around lazily. “There is no point in killing you if I can’t prove that I did.”

Gilbert blanches; it registers slowly in Ludwig’s mind that Ivan means to bring their murdered and _very_ dead bodies back to whatever secret organisation that produces _soldiers like Ivan,_ and isn’t that. A delectable thought. Delectable in the way that tercels[9] find their captivity delectable, because it promises them security and the next meal and a safe place to sleep at night, even at the cost of a long leash. His throat is dry when he asks, “Then we are not leaving the city?”

“No.”

“Ok,” says Gilbert, “ok, sure feels comforted to know that you aren’t about to chop us into tiny pieces... so you want answers? We’ll get you your answers.” He spreads out both palms. “Where do you want to go?”

Ivan smiles. It reaches his eyes. Ludwig does not know what to think. “I hope you don’t mind long bus rides.”

-

“He’s sitting five seats behind _adjacent_ to us, and the bus can’t stop _creaking,_ but I still am not convinced that he can’t hear us,” Gilbert mutters, still in German, turning slightly to eye Ivan. Ludwig turns too; Ivan waves at them. He looks back forward as stoically as he can manage.

“Shouldn’t you know?” Ludwig replies with more bite in his voice than he intends. He clears his throat before continuing, “From what you told me, you seemed to know his capabilities well.”

“Yeah, well, I hadn’t had the conditions to test _this one_ out. The facility... does not have _this_ much white noise. I -” Gilbert breaks out into coughs. “Fuck, I’m not used to the smog - I’m fine, I’m fine,” he dismisses when Ludwig hovers. Gilbert scoots closer. “Look, we’re stuck with him while we are here, so we gotta play nice, ok? The only way to go back is if he brings us with him, which means we can’t run.”

“And after we go back? What, then? Let him drag us back to the people who terrified you so much that you decide to meet the brother that you have not seen for _eight years_ for - what?” Ludwig’s agitation is making him raise his voice. He doesn’t care. He is also earning glares from the other commuters - maybe he cares, just a little. Ludwig breathes deeply. “If you didn’t think you are dying, you won’t have looked me up ever again, will you?”

“Of course not! I’ve always decided that I will see you again.” Gilbert looks so earnest that Ludwig wants to believe him. “Just... not like this, you know? Not so soon. I thought that when I come home, I’ll be rich and successful and be this, this awesome guy that you can look up to.” He laughs bitterly. “Prove Vati wrong, and all that. Be someone you can be proud of. Guess that didn’t happen.”

“I don't need you to do anything, brother,” Ludwig confesses tiredly, “I only want you to come home.”

“I -”

“But that doesn’t matter now, does it? You already -” Ludwig cuts himself off. “Is that a zeppelin?”

Gilbert twists around. From the window on the other side of the bus is the slow drift of a zeppelin that travels too close to the spires of a tower for comfort. It is huge, too; bigger than the ones that Ludwig sometimes sees flying over the Bodensee. “That’s’s... ” Gilbert gawks. “I don’t think the Graf Zeppelin is supposed to fly this low. I don’t think _any_ zeppelins can cruise this low.[10] “

“Are they still using hydrogen?”

“Yeah.”

“Then how is no one doing _anything?”_

“Quiet: you're looking like madmen,” Ivan commands as he slides into the empty seat behind them, with a nod of apology to the old lady leaning her head against the window. Ludwig supposes this answers Gilbert’s question on the extent of Ivan’s eavesdropping ability. “You do know that no one else can see it?”

Gilbert flips around and looks ready to climb over the chair - to sock Ivan, or something. “Are you crazy? You’re going to get us all killed!”

The old lady beside Ivan glares. Ivan tilts his hat in apology. The old lady scoffs at them before folding her hands.

“If we are the only one that can see the zeppelins, that means that we are seeing the city’s memories, and that means getting closer to the paradox. The _death worm,_ " Gilbert explains to Ludwig while glaring at Ivan. “You see why this is bad?”

“I told you: I want answers.”

“Then how the fuck is dying going to achieve that?”

"We won't die,” Ivan replies placidly, “we have you.”

 _What?_ Ludwig looks to Gilbert, but Gilbert only looks pained when he speaks, “You have _no idea_ what you are talking about.”

“No?” Ivan’s smile bears teeth. “I supposed so: I am not a scientist. But then I’ll find out, won’t I?”

Gilbert slouches, ignoring Ivan. Ivan crosses his legs and seemingly disappears into his thoughts, eyes shuttering with those quick flashes of colour darting across his pupils every few seconds. This is no time for answers, so Ludwig stares out the window, and watches the gigantic zeppelin cruise too close, slices through a building like a majestic ocean liner through the waves, and buries the fury, the frustration, the budding resentment threatening to spill from his chest and burn through bridges barely rebuilt, scald like acid and venom, rattlesnakes in waiting.

 _Not yet,_ Ludwig reminds, _give him time. Not yet._

The bus rattles on.

-

Ludwig wakes up to a hand shaking his shoulder and Gilbert hovering over him.

Groggily, he bats at Gilbert. “I fell asleep?”

“Yeah. You frowned a lot. Bad dream?” Ludwig rubs at his eyes. “Oh, and we’ve reached.”

Gilbert helps him up. They nod their thanks to the bus driver before alighting. The sun is dipping towards the horizon, the skies grey and dull - early sunsets, Ludwig remembers. Ivan is trying to read the news from a fellow commuter’s paper; Gilbert kicks Ivan’s right heel. His foot does not budge by even an inch. “Now what?” Gilbert demands.

Ivan straightens up. “There,” he decides, pointing to the left.

Gilbert squints. Ludwig doesn’t know what he’s trying to see: it is any old, grimy street that narrows into an alley. But whatever it is, Gilbert does not look placated. “Uh, anything I need to look out for?”

“No.” Ivan looks like he wants to say more, but stops himself when he glances at Ludwig. It’s frustrating, to know that he’s being deliberately kept out of the loop. “Perhaps we can find a place for a dinner and a night’s stay.”

“There’s likely still an hour before last light,” Gilbert argues, “we can go a little further. Don’t waste time.”

“For you, maybe,” Ivan contradicts, “but can he?” This is said with a nod towards Ludwig.

It stings, again, the implication that he is not good enough to keep up. The realisation that it is a result of a childhood of prioritising discipline from both Vati and Gilbert does not sink in until later. “I can,” Ludwig defenses, “I would prefer that we get this done and over with.”

Ivan shrugs. “As you wish.” He starts down the path. “Watch out for pickpockets.”

The street eventually narrows into an alley that branches off to lead into an area that Ludwig can only describe as _counterculture,_ except that instead of dingy, the place reeks of dying decadence and cynical hedonism, of alcohol and piss and diesel and something metallic; flashing neon lights and the sharp clink of broken glass, rich patrons mingling with the poorer but equally glamorously attired inhabitants.

He barely avoids the filthy splash of a puddle as a car drives past; the skimpily-dressed call-girls and young nouveau-riches in it screech with laughter like hyenas, and the telltale wildness in their eyes that scream of mixing alcohol with designer drugs. Gilbert grabs him by the arm. “Stay close to me,” he orders, and drags Ludwig along to follow Ivan into a smoky establishment.

The noise only crescendos the deeper they enter, crowds fluttering left and right and in and out, body heat mingling with sultry glances amidst the bright strains of music as the dancers on stage sing to the husky croon of the lead singer with her feathered hat. It’s making Ludwig claustrophobic, but Ivan has disappeared, slipping like a snake between the people, and Gilbert’s eyes are blazing with a certain confidence that diverges so fervently from the bravado Ludwig remembers from his adolescence, that the grip on Ludwig’s arm feels strangely assuring. There is gambling on some tables; it is probably ironic when Gilbert filches a fur coat off the back of the seat of a man too engrossed in his cards to notice it. Gilbert shrugs on the coat and drops his existing one; picks a table to join. When Ludwig hesitates, Gilbert rolls his eyes.

“Come on, kiddo: try to fit in.” Someone offers him a cigar; Gilbert doesn’t hesitate to accept. Turning to the man beside him, Gilbert asks, “So what’s on the table, boys?”

Ludwig’s never been one for gambling - never one for  _luck,_ as it is, and that does not change, even now. He hovers, awkward, and watches with half a mind elsewhere, eyes searching. Searching for what, Ludwig thinks, because he is unstuck in time in a world where he does not belong, and what _can_ he find? Familiarity? A sense of assurance? Orders so that he knows what he needs to do, what to live up to - but _no,_ Ludwig is older now. He _knows_ better, these days, that he needs to learn to handle aimlessness as and when it strikes, but, but to be this _untethered -_

Then maybe he is looking for Ivan, for a sense of direction, an inkling as to their purpose in this place. Or, perhaps, Ludwig is looking for something strange and unearthly: like the shadows in the possessed man’s eyes - swirling and slithering with menace - just before he attacks Ludwig.

“Anyone’s got dice?” A man at the table calls. “Feel like playing craps.”

“I got one!” Someone tosses it on the table. It’s weighed and rolled a few times before being deemed a pass.

“Can’t play a game with only a single die,” Gilbert complains, leaning back on the hind legs of his chair. Ludwig abruptly realises that he doesn’t even know whether Gilbert’s won or lost the previous game. “Come on, anyone else?”

“I,” Ludwig begins, and at the sudden attention, clears his throat. “I have a pair with me.”

“Just one will do,” says the first man, “toss it here.”

Ludwig fishes out one of the two that he took from the hotel room[11]. It is a deep blue, made of glass where the other die on the table is of ivory. Even though Ludwig refuses to look away from his die, he can feel Gilbert’s eyes on him, prickly and opaque.

His die is rolled and tested and finally deemed unloaded. When the game begins, Gilbert rejoins the game without any question.

(The wave of disappointment startles Ludwig, but it shouldn’t have. Gilbert is never one for emotions, much less concern enough to interrogate the uncharacteristic likeliness of Ludwig bringing around a pair of dice with him - eight years could not change a childhood of disciplined stoicism. Ludwig should know. Ludwig is an example of it, the effects of its success. Feelings are inefficient - hurry, _hurry,_ there are things to do, goals to achieve, _move on, son, no one cares, move on.)_

Their game is attracting audiences now, the stakes climbing higher and higher. Gilbert appears to be playing loudly and recklessly - until Ludwig calculates the bets and realises that Gilbert won’t ultimately be losing much, at all, as compared to the other men that he edges on.

He can’t tell if the girls that join them are actual girlfriends, young adults trying to have fun, or the workers subtly inserted for crowd-control while maybe also conducting certain more risqué money-making. One of the girls bats her eyes at Gilbert, but when he waves her away, she slinks her arm over Ludwig instead, the pearls around her neck swaying with the tresses that have fallen elegantly from her updo.

“Hello, pretty boy,” she whispers, her lips brushing against the lobe of Ludwig’s ear. Ludwig edges nervously away, but she persists to cling on his arm. “You look bored. Want to head off with me instead?”

“I don’t -”

“Hey, Lutz,” Gilbert interrupts. “Don’t go rejecting a doll like that when she’s asking you so sweetly.”

“But brother -”

“Go have some fun,” Gilbert commands, already turning back to the game. “We have all night, anyway.”

Ludwig would really rather hover by Gilbert’s side, but the girl is already dragging him away. She leads him to the heart of the room - the _dance floor._ Ludwig stumbles.

“I, I don’t dance,” he stammers. “I _can’t_ dance.”

“Well, I don’t care,” the girl tells him, “I want to dance, and you are going to dance with me. My name’s Chiara. And you?”

“Ludwig.”

“Well, Ludwig,” she drawls, grabbing both of Ludwig’s hands, “start dancing with me. Don’t be shy: follow my lead and dance with the flow. Come on.” She starts trotting, and _oh no,_ is she really going to make Ludwig attempt to _swing dance?_ This is a disaster on so many levels.

“Loosen up,” Chiara commands. “You are moving like a _machine._ Here, just follow me.” She turns around and starts doing some kicks. Ludwig does his best - he really _did!_ \- but when Chiara peers over her shoulder, she gapes in dismay.

“You are not a _soldier,_ are you?”

“...No?”

“Then _stop marching._ " She hooks an arm around his waist. Ludwig dutifully copies her. “It’s not that hard: skip a bit and sway your hips a bit - _no._ Not like that, you dance like my _grandmother -_ ouch! You stepped on me, you - ugh. Never mind.” She finally steps back, glaring at Ludwig with so much disdain like she wants to squish him under her _very_ sharp stilettos like a bug. “I give up. Let’s do something else[12].”

She does not hold his hand this time as she struts through the crowd, but her Malaga red[13] dress with its boat neck is striking against the backdrop of halter necklines and sweeter colours worn by the other women. Where Chiara slinks, Ludwig has to jostle his way through the crowd, the occasional dancers startling as they bump into him and reminding him of his recent embarrassment.

Chiara disappears behind the curtains, and he should leave, he really should, he _wants_ to but - but it’s not right, is it? To just abandon someone’s company so flippantly because he wants out?

He ducks under the curtains, and steps tiredly down the corridor. There is only one room with the door half-closed, and this must be where Chiara is. Ludwig steps in, mouth open and an apology on the tip of his tongue, when Chiara spins him around and slams him against the back of the door, a dagger to his throat.

Oh.

“Who sent you,” she hisses, “ _traveller_?”

_Oh._

 

-

Look it’s footnotes!

 

[6]Slaughterhouse-Five is a satirical novel about WW2 and it’s very good. I thought it’s on the public domain, but apparently not. So, to encourage responsible practices, here’s the [gutenberg article](http://self.gutenberg.org/articles/eng/Slaughterhouse-Five), please support your local libraries.^

[7]This is a psa that S.O.P. save lives.^

[8][ https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0023694/“ rel=“nofollow”](https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0023694/) White Zombie is arguably the first zombie film in history. Also “zombie” in German is “Zombie.” Yes, it’s the exact same thing, even with an accent. [ Yes, Howcast made a video on this.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=STLSLivFh0o)^

[9]A tercel is a male hawk, especially a peregrine or a goshawk, which are two of the most common birds used for falconry.^

[10]Zeppelins still exist today! Zeppelin NTs are modern zeppelins, and they do [commercial flights](https://zeppelin-nt.de/en/zeppelin-companies/services/FAQ.html) above Bodensee/Lake Constance, which is located at the Austria-Switzerland-Germany border. The LZ127 Graf Zeppelin is one of the most successful commercial zeppelins in history, and based on official flight reports it probably last flew over London in July 1932. It’s also huge, with a length of 776ft (262m) and 100ft (30.48m) in diameter. LZ129 Hindenburg is bigger with almost twice the gas capacity and _does_ fly over London, but it is only completed in 1936, which is four years ahead of the current events of this fic. Additionally, it caught fire on one of its flights, and because they use hydrogen gas, the result was explosive and devastating. Go [here](http://www.airships.net/) for more zeppelin nerdery.^

[11] ludwig opens inventory: slots filled - 3/50 [dice x2, letter opener x1], because men’s pockets are huge, and this fic is secretly an rpg^

[12]Chiara is dancing [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WB28EIKC4DE) and, less so, [this](http://www.walternelson.com/dr/weimar-dancing), so you can just imagine how Ludwig completely fucks it up. Also, as someone who is completely incapable of dancing, this is another psa that forcing someone like Ludwig or me to dance with you is a Bad IdeaTM, no matter how good the intentions.^

[13]this is a shoutout to [OPI's malaga wine](https://www.makeupalley.com/product/showreview.asp/ItemId=20478/Malaga-Wine/OPI/Polishes), which makes a statement like cate blanchett’s every appearance.^

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New updates on the character tags next chapter :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote it. Was halfway through Chpt 4, and then decided that, ok fuck, the world-building is not working out because there’s too much science that i half-assed about because i am a humanities kid and documentaries + khan academy + wikipedia + educational websites can only go so far to teach me enough physics to substantiate outrageous sci-fi theories. 
> 
> Ivan’s PoV. Yeehaw.

His head is loud.

It is always so loud, these days. The _scritch scritch_ scratch of the paradox is getting louder the closer they get to it: the universe tearing at its seams, loud and ugly, Gilbert’s _death worm_ struggling to be freed.

The thing most people don’t understand, is that when you scramble through time, what is left behind is traces; scorched earth, landmines, breadcrumbs, flower seeds. They burn through space-time and leaves behind fertile volcanic soil.

Ivan can hear _all_ of their traces.

The volatile buzz of Gilbert’s presence, the steady purr of Ludwig’s; brothers, both of them, at their core. Keeping track of his teammates used to annoy Ivan, the incessant clash of contrasting and diverse personalities a cacophony that distracts and gives him a headache, but the two of them is simply… accordant.

Family. Family that _supports_ each other, a familiar light in the heart of a storm, and even though the bond is neglected and strayed at the ends, a desolate building can be restored upon a strong framework, and a relationship once strong can always have its rotting wood torn down and rebuilt.

It gives Ivan peace. Their presence gives Ivan _peace_ , even if it makes him melancholic. Nevertheless. Peace is a feeling he misses.

But the one thing that gets on his _nerves_ is the sound of his heart, beating steady but quiet, hiding in the roar of noise pretending to be an earworm. But it's not, it's _not,_ it's here and it's _real,_ and Ivan is closer to where they took his heart for the first time in _years -_ the real one instead of the decoy at the facility, tucked away in the vast trail of time and space and now _finally_ found as the heartbeats sound clearer.

And then it stops, and Ivan is back to where he started.

It's infuriating. The only redeeming part of this chase is that Ivan _knows_ he has come close - he can feel it, the phantom ache - so he's on the right track, at least.

It's easy to find Gilbert, even in this crowd - just look for the liveliest table. Gilbert likes vivacity, is drawn to the energy, and Ivan can relate. Although, not to the extent of _chaos_ that Gilbert revels.

Gilbert’s face is twisted into a sharp grin, canines bared as he places his bets.

Ivan eases his way through the crowd, elbows tucked inwards. “Gilbert,” he murmurs.

Gilbert jumps, almost falling off his chair. He _does_ shake the table somewhat, and there are loud cries of _cheating!_ and _roll it again,_ and Gilbert apologises before pushing his chair back to offer them some privacy.

“What?”

“Where’s Ludwig?”

“Some girl tried to pick him up.” Gilbert shrugs. “I told him to go with her.”

Ivan makes a face. Gilbert shouldn't have let him _at all,_ much less encourage someone this new to _this,_ and _especially_ while they are this close to the paradox. But more importantly: “And he just went along with it?”

“Keep up with that judgey face, Ivan - it looks better on you than that creep-o-meter smile.” Ivan grips his chair and drags it viciously back, almost sending Gilbert tumbling with the sudden movement. “Jeez fuck, chill. Did you find what you’re here for?”

“No.” Ivan stares at the table. The mug lifts, and a round of cheers and jeers as the result is revealed. And _oh,_ Ivan didn't notice that. “That blue dice. Where did that come from?”

“Lutz had it in his pocket, apparently. I know: I'm learning new things about my brother by every second too.” The sudden shadow that crosses Gilbert’s face is unexpected; Gilbert is not someone to be resentful or any of its likes. He is too practical for it. Wild and half-mad, but still: practical. It's pretty much a talent. “Why are you asking?”

“It doesn’t fit,” Ivan tries to answer in the best way that he knows.

Gilbert rolls his eyes. “How cryptic.”

Ivan ignores that. “Get it back for your brother; come with me for a bit.”

Gilbert calls quits, and the men reluctantly but eventually returns him the die and a stack of notes to stuff in his wallet; he trails after Ivan, forced to keep close before the dancers move in and close up the gap in the crowd. A few times, he stumbles into Ivan’s back. Ivan resists the urge to hold his hand.

The building is old, a repurposing of a mansion from an aristocrat family fallen from grace, so there are many smaller rooms delicately hidden away, subtle breathers for their glamorous guests. The one that Ivan brings Gilbert into is already filled with a smattering of exhilarated dancers.

“The parlour?” Gilbert mutters, shuffling.

“No: this was the cloakroom. But in places like this, people are wary of who they leave their coats with.” He excuses himself and brings them deeper in, towards the dim stairwell, lit golden and arranged with the ambience of the corridors on a first-class train cabin. And then, he chooses one of the rooms at the end - because the arches on it are pretty and it's unlocked. Ivan is at heart a simple man attracted to pretty things.

The room opens up to a conservatory. In the night, the lights outside glowing distant like stars above the garden.

It is almost romantic.

Ivan draws the curtain shut.

When Gilbert enters, he closes the door behind him but does not switch on the lights. Everything that Ivan can see come from that thin strip of streetlights filtering through the gaps between the curtains, the world existing in shades of shadows and gentle glows, a moment in a single breath.

(His heart beats like a dying gasp before fading away again.)

“What do you want,” Gilbert demands, and his voice is too loud too clear too precious a thing at this moment that feels so dream-like, a statement to ground Ivan in the moment.

He wants to grab Gilbert and buries his face into Gilbert’s hair; inhale the scent of him, the heat of someone warm and familiar and actually _wants him._

Ivan doesn't do any of it, but it must have shown, somehow, because Gilbert takes a step back and mutters, “Now’s not a good time.”

“I know.” Ivan stares at one of the flowers. In the dark, the red and the pink roses are withered, and only the plain whites are set aglow. He pulls out a stalk of white rose[14] and slides it into Gilbert’s buttonhole. “Now you look proper.”

“I _always_ look proper.” Ivan snorts incredulously. “When I need to,” Gilbert amends. His lips are curved, the glint of teeth. “Hey, how do you like the fur? What animal do you think is slaughtered for this - ermine?”

“Probably a bunch of raccoons[15].”

“Look at this extravagance.” Gilbert holds out an arm to showcase the coat. It is with disgust as he continues, “they don't deserve it.”

“You can't bring it back with you.”

“I know,” Gilbert insists, “and I don't want to. It's just - ah, fuck. Humanity is a bunch of selfish pricks.”

Ivan does not bother to deny it. “Man versus Nature,” he agrees, “but that is not why I asked you here.”

He does not like how Gilbert’s hackles immediately rise. “Then what?”

“I need you to find something,” Ivan admits, “likely the size of a big mason jar, or a small melon. I do not know what it will look like, but it will be wrapped up.”

“That's vague as fuck.”

Ivan shrugs. “That's all I can give you.”

“Is that a threat?”

Ivan blinks. He has not meant it that way, but he can see how easily his words can be misconstrued. Nonetheless: “No.”

“Sure fucking sounds like it.” Gilbert presses his thumb into the heart of the white rose. The petals crumple. He drops his hand. “So… is that all?”

Yes. No. Ivan doesn’t know - there are a million things that Ivan can say, wants to say, _needs_ to say, but is this the right time? _Is_ there a right time? Is there a point in saying at all, when saying is so easily twisted and fumbled and misdirected into regrets when it means nothing at all, in the end, and Ivan has no idea where his thoughts are leading him towards, now, a jumble of mess, on and on and on like a rabid dog on a frenzy, a madman given the stage.

Gilbert wets his lips, and Ivan snaps back to attention. “Generally,” he answers.

“Right.” Gilbert takes another step away. “So we’re leaving? I mean, if he’s getting some, uh, action and shit - I don’t want to disrupt him. Them. Ah, fuck.”

Ivan does not _want_ to be a _voyeur,_ but when needs must. He’ll just compartmentalise _very hard_ and wash it down with a healthy gulp of cheap vodka later.

The lights and visions dart into view, the ghosts of his past calling out Ludwig’s location, their fingers reaching towards the traces that Ludwig has left blazing behind. Their eyes are shiny and luminous like the glassy gaze of corpses; the ghosts disconcert Ivan now as much as the first time he sees them. Ivan ignores it.

What he doesn’t expect is a sudden _scream_ in his ears.

He doesn’t realise that he’s grimacing until his vision refocuses and Gilbert pupils are dilated and uncertain, body tensed as though ready to take or throw a punch.

The scream is shrill and childish and definitely feminine, and that is how he knows that he’s the only one who heard it. All his ghosts trailing after his shadow. “Your brother’s in trouble.”

“Again?” But Gilbert takes off after Ivan without a second word. In his peripheral, the ghosts point out the path, showing him shortcuts even as they slowly fade back into the fabric of Ivan’s reality. Ivan ducks into a long corridor, and at the final door, stands a transparent little girl. Her hair is braided into a bun. Before Ivan can reach her, she fades into the wood.

Ivan inhales and enters the door right beside instead.

“There’s nothing -” Gilbert’s words are cut off with Ivan’s hand to his mouth. Gilbert _bites,_ even though he knows that does absolutely _no shit_. His eyes are sharp and burning, but he doesn’t try to fight away from Ivan’s touch, and that means something.

Ivan creeps towards the balcony. “Wait outside the door to the left and knock three times. Wait thirty seconds, and then knock again. Go,” Ivan orders. Gilbert obeys without hesitation, and it's funny, isn't it, that for all Gilbert accuses Ivan of attempted murder, they have been teammates for long enough that there are an inherent conviction and _trust_ that they won't lead each other astray. Almost comforting, even.

Ivan perches on the railings, toes curled, and leaps over to the other side; grabs on the railing before tucking his knees over, and lets the momentum swing himself in before landing gently on both feet.

The balcony door is unlocked; Ivan opens it and simply stands there, watching the girl that is holding a dagger to Ludwig’s throat freezes at the knock on the door.

Ludwig is staring blankly at him.

Ivan takes that as cue to stroll over.

He has to admit that the girl has good instincts, because she notices his presence much _much_ earlier than Ivan anticipates from the usual person. She flips around, dagger still pressed into Ludwig’s Adam’s apple as she tilts her head defiantly.

“Come any closer and I will cut him,” she threatens.

Ivan honestly does not give a fuck - it’s not his brother. He stops, anyway, because he’s curious. “Someone is trying to enter the room,” he reminds. As ordered, Gilbert raps on the door again, but with a newfound intensity that hints that he _did_ hear the threat. “You are being _suspicious._ ”

The girl purses her lips. Her eyes dart between Ludwig and Ivan and with a grimness that suggests decision. She shoves Ludwig to a side, blade still to the throat, to the side of the wall where the hinges are, before inclining her head towards Ivan. “You will open the door. Don’t you _dare_ try anything funny,” she hisses.

Ivan takes his time to saunter over. When he opens the door, the edges of crazy is creeping into Gilbert’s eyes; Ivan can empathise - the crazy-eyes, not the condition for it. Ivan does not have siblings anymore. “Good evening,” he greets cheerfully, and angles his body to let Gilbert enter.

Gilbert follows Ivan’s gaze towards the door. He takes two steps forward; Ivan swings the door shut just as Gilbert darts forward and drags the girl back.

What happens next is quick: Gilbert goes for the wrist holding the dagger, and the surprised pressure forces her to loosen her grip.

Instincts kick in and Ivan seizes the falling dagger just as the girl twists to sweep Gilbert off his feet. She slams down between Gilbert’s shoulder blade with her elbow before swinging at Ivan.

(Super soldier. _Super soldier._ There are certain qualities that are prized in a fighter, and Ivan is _choked full_ of them.)

Ivan makes sure to smile as he seizes her jugular.

It’s so easy, Ivan thinks, to snap her neck right now, instead of watching her pitifully struggle with her kicks and scratching and the usual squirming against a man that she is quickly realising is immune to bodily harm. Her grappling rapidly evolves into choking as he further constricts her breathing, her eyes rolling back as her movement weakens, and there, _there_ -

Ludwig is clawing at his hand. “Stop, you’re going to kill her!” he shouts frantically. “Stop, _please_ -”

Ivan drops the girl.

“What the everloving fuck?” Gilbert mutters, struggling upright. The girl is gasping for breath on the ground, hands scrambling at her throat and tears oozing out from her eyes. “Girl, your elbows are _pointy._ ”

“Fuck off,” she mutters, still coughing. Ludwig crouches beside her and, even though she has a knife to his throat less than thirty seconds ago, rubs at her back, before pulling off his outer coat to drape over her shoulders.

As if to make her point, she rubs her snot all over the sleeve. Ivan likes her.

“If this is some weird kinky foreplay, I'm gonna be pissed,” Gilbert grumbles. He grabs Ivan’s hand to pull himself up. “Or if this is an attempted robbery, _come on girl -_ you would have made a _killing_ out there instead of targeting Lutz. Like you won’t believe the shit _I_ stole with the laziest attempts at pickpocketing -”

“The _point,_ Gilbert,” Ivan reminds softly, and Gilbert's jaw clicks shut.

“Right.” Gilbert stretches his left shoulder. Then: “Who are you and how much do I have to pay for you to shut up about this and go away forever?”

“ _Gilbert._ ”

The girl glares challengingly back up.

“Her name’s Chiara,” Ludwig answers tiredly. The girl punches his biceps with surprising speed _and_ strength. Ludwig winces, but continues, “She called me a _traveller_.”

“Oh,” says Gilbert, “oh fuck, is this a secret society kind of thing?”

Chiara snarls. “Not so secret if you are _shouting_ it.”

“Damn, then sorry girl, I can’t help you here. Because you people keep fucking good records and _that_ is a bitch to deal with, so we're gonna make sure that you can’t _tattle_.”

“What?” Ludwig manages as Chiara scampers backwards - searching her surroundings for any sort of makeshift weapon, probably. Ivan tauntingly waves her dagger back at her; her fingers claw the ground. “No, that’s not right. She didn’t do anything.”

Gilbert snorts. “She held a blade to your throat. She could have _slashed_ you.”

“But she didn’t,” Ludwig insists. “Can we…” He visibly scrambles. “Talk? First?”

“And if she bolts?” Chiara inches away with every step that Ivan takes, Ludwig an arm stretched over her as though he can actually _do something_ if Ivan kills her. “How will we deal with it?”

Ludwig fumbles. He glances back at Chiara. “She can’t outrun you.”

“Maybe.” Ivan is close enough to reach out and grab her hair back; expose her throat. The ugly gash when he slits it. “But who's to say that she won’t tattle after we let her go?” He crouches down. Chiara tries to kick him, but when he grabs her ankle and _twists,_ she swallows her scream and spits on his face. He doesn’t wipe it. He ignores Ludwig’s shout too, shocked and indignant as Gilbert holds Ludwig back. “You can write too, can’t you?” He glances at her wrists. “I may have to slit your tendons, then.”

For once, fear shows on Chiara’s face: a caught gasp, the paling of the cheeks. “Oh,” Ivan notices, studying the muscles coiled at her calves, “you’re a _dancer._ ”

“Fuck you,” Chiara growls, but all that fury cools the moment that a _secret door_ creaks open.

The voice is female and whispered, yet with a lightness to it. “Chiara? I know you told me to wait in the car, but it’s been a few hours and people are giving me weird looks -”

“Don’t come out!” Chiara yells, but it’s too late. A young girl wearing palazzo pants[16] slips out, tall but with curves that suggest a life carefree with good food and lazy exercise. When she catches sight of them (and what a sight they must make: Ludwig panicking as Gilbert pulls him away, Ivan with a hand still on Chiara’s ankle while the other grips a knife, Chiara’s wide eyes fevered), she gapes.

“Well, fuck,” Gilbert murmurs. “Now there are _two_ of them.”

Ivan punches Chiara in the throat and dashes across the room before the other girl can escape. He sticks his palm by the door arch before she can slam the door shut, and pulls her out by the back of her collar.

Chiara screams something insulting in her native tongue - something about a whore or being cuckolded, Ivan’s not sure. He’s never attempted to learn the language.

“So,” he greets pleasantly, “what is _your_ name?”

The girl swallows. It’s no easy feat, considering that she is dangling in the air, suffocation by her _own collar_ barely prevented from the fingers she hurriedly tucked under her throat. “Bianca.”

“Bianca,” Ivan echoes. “What is your relationship with dear Chiara over there?”

“M - my sister,” Bianca manages[17]. She is starting to wheeze. “Let me down? I won’t run.”

Ivan drops her.

Bianca hacks her lungs out as she catches her breath. Ivan hopes Gilbert manages to keep Chiara down, because if Ivan finds himself _bludgeoned_ while watching Bianca right now, he’s going to be pissed and Gilbert’s going to be _dead,_ while accountability to the facility can go fuck itself.

“Thanks for not killing me,” Bianca manages after she’s calmed down some. “Uh, do you mind if I just. Backtrack into this door over here -”

“Yes, I do mind.” Ivan hauls Bianca up to her feet, and Bianca wisely does not bother squirming away. She stays very, very still. “Ludwig,” Ivan calls, “it seems I have figured out how to shut your girl up without having to cut out her tongue.”

Bianca stammers out a _w-what?_ as Ivan shakes her. “We got ourselves a hostage.”

-

Ludwig clears his throat. “How’s your ankle?”

Chiara pulls the coat closer around her shoulders. “It’s fine.”

“No worries,” Ivan interjects. Chiara scoots away from him, and then scoots back to avoid pressing against Ludwig. “I twisted her ankle back.” There has been a lot of screaming and even more profanities. Ludwig has blushed.

Gilbert deftly avoids another smack from Bianca and peers over his shoulder. “Seriously, someone trade seats with me,” he remarks, “you guys look fucking hilarious.”

Ivan supposes it is. A Peugeot may be one of the bigger mid-range cars of the era, but it is not _that_ comfortable to fit two men considered _huge_ even among other men in their age group, much less fit both of them in the backseat _and_ a girl ready to fight her way through them at any moment available.

Ivan would have made Gilbert switch with Ludwig, except Ludwig is so reluctant to fight these _obviously capable_ girls out of some misplaced sense of chivalry (which is so, _so_ stupid, Gilbert has whined, because that chivalry exists only in face of power imbalance, but these girls _are trained fighters, they can probably flatten you, Lutz_ ), and won’t be able to stop Bianca if she decides to pull something funny from her driver’s seat - of which she _only_ gets because she’s the only one who knows how to operate the car.

Anyway, it’s not as though Bianca has time to do anything than struggle to _not crash_ , because Gilbert can’t help _fiddling_ with unknown switches. He’s not taking this hostage situation seriously at all. It will annoy Ivan, except Ivan’s feeling all sorts of ridiculous too.

He almost wishes they _will_ crash, just so that he can adjust his position to something more comfortable, when his heart stammers in his ears again.

“Turn left,” he orders frenetically.

“Right now?” Bianca asks, and with the stereotypical recklessness of an Italian driver, _swerves_ without warning.

Angry shouts and alarmed beeping. Chiara crashing into Ludwig while Ivan grabs onto the seat in front and _finally_ shifts. Bianca is a _great_ driver. “Head straight. Hurry.”

The car bounces along the street, rickety rackety loud old engines on old roads. His heart beats louder in his ears, a phantom staccato in the empty hole in his chest patched up with a moonstone that now _burns._ “Faster.”

“This is not an asphalt road.”

Yes, Ivan is aware that cobblestoned paths are not meant for speeding vehicles. “A bumpy ride would not kill anyone. Drive faster.”

“Uh, if I go any faster, this car may come apart.”

“It may catch on fire for all I care,” Ivan snaps. “Drive _faster._ ”

Bianca slams the engine. The car _hurtles_ , Chiara yelping as she bumps the back of her head. Gilbert _finally_ keeps his hands to his side of the dashboard, knuckles white as the door rattles.

And Ivan is close, so _so_ close to his heart when it goes silent again.

He tells himself that he is not disappointed. He's not. _He's not._ He's not disappointed because before this jump, he's thought he'll _never_ find his heart again, and you can't be disappointed if there's no hope in the first place.

“Stop at the nearest hotel,” he finally decides, leaning back against the window while Bianca drops the gear.

“What’s that about?” Gilbert questions when he finally releases his hand from his death-grip. “Are you that desperate to sleep?”

Ivan won’t be sleeping tonight, anyway. His frustration aside, someone needs to keep watch. “I,” counters Ivan, “am _desperate_ to begin interrogation.”

Chiara uncrosses her legs, and crosses them again.

“I don’t think I ever want to park this car,” Bianca adds sotto voce to Gilbert. Gilbert pats her arm sympathetically.

The hotel that Bianca parks at is likely mid-range and respectable, and not very significant at all. He makes Gilbert get off the car first, followed by Bianca, and waits for both Ludwig and Chiara to alight before he exits himself.

The porter hovers awkwardly, staring at their seeming lack of luggage - the girls have left what little luggage they have locked in a portmanteau and, along with Ivan’s suitcase, hidden in a secret _modified_ compartment under the car seats. Their only belonging is the small bag holding the sisters’ change of clothes that Chiara tucks against her hip.

Ivan waves the porter off. The rest of them trail after Ivan as he approaches the counter.

“A room, please.”

Behind him, Ludwig makes a confused noise that Gilbert shushes. The receptionist stares. “There are five of you.”

“I know.” But security is harder with two rooms, and the only person he can trust to adequately keep watch and deal with any unpredictabilities is Gilbert. “One room for a night, please.”

“But - but it’s against the rules. We don’t have enough beds -”

“We don’t need it.” Then, remembering about basic hotel amenities, Ivan adds, “We also won’t need hotel breakfast.”

“Ah.” The tips of the receptionist’s ears are red as she processes the booking. Gilbert mutters something to the rest of the group that earns him a giggle from Bianca. Ivan pretends not to hear it, because there will always be people with their heads in the gutter, no matter _Ivan’s intention._ “Your name, mister?”

“Adam Smith.”

The receptionist blinks. “I'm sorry?”

“Adam Smith,” Ivan repeats dryly, “like the economist[18].” Gilbert’s snickering grows in volume.

“I see.” The receptionist forces a thin smile onto her face as she completes registration. “Here are your keys.”

“Thank you.” Ivan passes one to Gilbert before they squeeze into the tiny lift, the attendant shuffling uncomfortably aside to make room for all five of them. None of them makes eye-contact when the lift reaches their floor, and Gilbert is the one to unlock the door and check all the windows and grids before ushering them in.

The only bed in the room is a king-size.

As a man who had sisters, Ivan is undaunted. As a man who has travelled through time multiple times with various other soldiers-slash-time-travellers like Ivan and then subsequently been on the run, Gilbert is undaunted. As two girls who are members of a secret society and therefore have probably been in rougher hostage situations than with them, Bianca and Chiara are undaunted.

Ludwig, meanwhile, blushes so furiously that Ivan wonders if he can pop Ludwig’s head with a needle.

“One of you girls can go wash up first, if you want,” he offers. Bianca and Chiara exchanges a glance, and then Chiara tosses the bag at her. Bianca catches it with an _oof._

“Be right back,” she announces before slipping off.

The shower starts. Chiara folds her arms. Ludwig starts hanging up everyone’s coats in the wardrobe.

“Gilbert and I will be taking shifts throughout the night,” Ivan informs belatedly after the silence drags too long. “Gilbert and I will take the armchairs to the side. If you do not want to share the bed, the floor is carpeted.”

Another moment of silence as everyone mentally draws up their sleeping arrangements. “The floor is _filthy,_ ” Chiara wisely points out when Ludwig looks like he is actually considering the latter.

“Hotels are filthy in general[19],” Gilbert argues, flopping onto the duvet without hesitation, “but we are sweaty and filthy too, so let’s just wallow in filth.”

Ivan grabs Gilbert by the ankle and drags him halfway off the bed. “Don’t make the filth _worse._ ”

Gilbert kicks lazily at him with his other leg. “But I am laying claim to the bed,” he complains, “marking my territory.”

“Like a mongrel,” Ivan agrees, dropping the foot. He turns to the others, both hovering awkwardly at the side. “If this is going to be an issue, I can request for more pillows from the staff, so that you can build a divider.”

 _Another_ pause, then:

“Thank you,” says Ludwig, at the same time that Chiara decides, “That’s not necessary.”

Ludwig stares at her.

“What?” Chiara scowls. “It’s just sharing a goddamn bed.”

“I may be something of a restless sleeper.”

Chiara wrinkles her nose. “Do you start cuddling up to people?”

“No, I occasionally sleep-talk.”

“Oh.” Chiara considers this. “Both my sister and I don’t mind noise, and we fall back asleep easily, so it won’t be an issue.”

Ludwig clears his throat. “But the bed is cramped for three people.”

“My sister is a clingy sleeper. We won’t take up much space.”

“But -”

“How many fucking questions do I have to shoot down before you finally admit that you are worried about respectability?” Chiara snaps. “Which, to answer your question, I _do not care about?_ This is not the first time we have to share a bed with others.”

Gilbert snorts. “See, Lutz? It’s just you being a prude.”

Ivan uses the opportunity to cut to the chase. “Not the first time?” he repeats. “Does working for your organisation give you many travelling opportunities?”

“I’m not telling you anything.”

“Mm, somewhat,” Bianca answers absently as she steps out of the lavatory. She is surprisingly fast. “What? Don’t glare at me, cara mia - after all, if they brought us to hide out at a hotel instead of rendezvousing with their boss, they are probably independent travellers.”

“I don’t know,” Chiara retorts, glaring at Ivan. “Maybe their boss is this _robot_ over here.”

Won’t she _love_ to know that he is literally without heart? But that is not information to reveal to a stranger. “Our boss,” Ivan divulges, gesturing between Gilbert and him, “wants _him_ killed.”

“Oh,” Chiara says.

“ _See,_ cara sorella?” Bianca beams. “They are already disobeying orders, which means it’ll be fine! To tell the truth, I find the fact that we _aren’t_ dead yet very comforting.”

Chiara bites her lips, as though physically restraining herself to disclose that Ivan _almost_ did. “They still shouldn’t be here.”

“Hey, hey pause there,” Gilbert interjects. “And _rewind._ How do you know about us?”

There is an intense conversation through hand gestures and furious glares between the sisters; Bianca shrugs and inclines her head towards Ludwig, who has finally sat on an armchair. “ _Three_ people are a sizeable rip in time. Boss noticed and sent us looking, and we got lucky. There are a lot of us that was sent out, actually,” Bianca admits. “We, we don’t have a proper name, anyway, but people have been calling us the _wolves_ -”

“Oh great,” Gilbert complains. “There are _more_ secret societies?”

“How many of such organisations are there?” Ivan clarifies.

Chiara makes a face. “Too many.”

“...Anyway, we’re worried. But we actually could not identify until we noticed -” Bianca points at Ludwig, “- him. He very obviously stands out.”

Of course. Of course it is when Ivan has an inexperienced _civilian_ with him that he ends up jumping into an era wherein the boss of a secret society is most likely another _time-traveller_ that went back in time and decided to stay - this is the only way someone _can_ hear the rip in the fabric of the universe when space-time is breached.

Ivan does not know how their boss managed to hide, and even _influence_ others to such an extent without the paradox catching up with them, but it’s been theorised before that it’s possible. To _evade_ the paradox’s hunt, he means. It is supposedly what Gilbert has stolen, the key to supercede the time limit imposed on every visit to the past; except, Ivan is not a fan of believing in speculation until he has seen proof of said key’s existence.

“Does your organisation meet many travellers?” he prods. “You organisation - you are called _wolves,_ yes? You seem to know people like us very well.” Too well, in fact; if Ivan cannot find his heart, he will have to report it.

“Uh, yes and no.” Bianca passes her bag to Chiara, and Chiara stomps off to the toilet without a word. Gilbert wriggles away to make space for Bianca to sit on the edge of the bed. “Some of us has met many of them, especially Boss. Us two? Most times, we don’t do anything: we only intercept if there may be a threat.”

“Huh.” Gilbert rolls himself up to his elbows. “And what’s a threat?”

“It’s all very vague.” Bianca makes a face. “Boss summarises it as _anyone who fucks with the universe._ I’m guessing it means they try to change history?”

“Isn’t that impossible?” Ludwig frowns. “They told me that the universe realigns itself.”

“Time is set,” Ivan agrees. “It is unlikely to make any impacts that last past a century.” Because that is a paradox, and _the_ paradox - that ruthless _death worm_ of Gilbert, will restore the balance before any irregularities can fuck things up permanently.

“Yeah, I thought so too. That there are time-travellers at all proves that causality can be neutralised. You know what I am talking about, right? The special relativity theory by Einstein, which is considerably new and some of my colleagues do not understand -”

“Bianca,” Ivan interrupts. “We are from the _future._ We understand things that you can’t even imagine.”

Bianca laughs her embarrassment away. People that can do that - laugh in face of shame - they are something amazing. “Right. Anyway, boss concludes that this means causality can be equated to something like _energy,_ which means there is a loophole that people can exploit, _but._ ” She pouts. “He didn’t specify _what_ the loophole is.”

“A loophole,” Gilbert echoes, and there is a tightness in his voice that immediately draws Ivan’s scrutiny. Gilbert’s face is carefully blank. Ivan wonders if that has to do with the secrets he keeps, the thing he’s stolen.

(The thing is, even though Ivan does not know _exactly_ \- nor does he care to - what Gilbert has stolen, he wants to know the source of Gilbert’s betrayal, and knowing _what_ is stolen will offer him insight.)

“But if your boss does not tell you what it is,” Ludwig protests slowly, “then how do you know what you are finding?”

“That’s why we find out your intentions: if it sounds _anything_ like world annihilation, then you’re the one!” Her voice rises comically like the host of a game show. “But so far, we haven’t met anyone trying to end the world, just other societies trying to discover the secret to immortality or raise the dead or something.”

Gilbert snickers bitterly. “If the world is going to end, it’s going to end the way it is always meant to end - you can’t change it to any other way.”

“Hmm? Why not?”

“Because if causality can be neutralised,” Gilbert explains, “that means the future is set. There is nothing you can do to change fate if free-will never exists. It’s like being stuck in a reel where that is eventually going to run out, and you can cut out the clips and shorten it, but even without those few scenes, the final scene is always that same  _The End_ blasted across the big screen.”

“But _The End_ determines only that it will end, not the last closing scene preceding it,” Bianca argues. She tucks a stray hair behind her ears. “I think you're too set in your fatalism. If everything we do is already set in stone to _that_ level of details, then the universe won't be freaking out about time-travellers, right?”

“I guess, yeah.” Gilbert stands up and pats out the wrinkles in his shirt. “Do you mind if I head off a bit? I kind of want a smoke.” He grabs his keys and escapes the room.

That one smoke at the bar aside, Ivan _knows_ that Gilbert has been trying his best to quit for _years_ now, and Ivan knows that _Gilbert_ knows he knows; Gilbert knows that Ivan will follow him out.

Ivan weighs his chances. Chiara is probably coming out of the lavatory any time now, but she is still harbouring something of a limp, while Bianca seems to relish in the newfound company. Ivan fishes the keys from his pocket and tosses it at Ludwig.

“I’ll join him,” Ivan explains, patting his breast pocket where his cigarettes are. He leaves the room and - and neither the lounge nor the bar is a good place for a serious conversation, Ivan feels. The presence of alcohol makes things heedy, the presence of others risky. To the roof it is.

The roof is empty save for Gilbert leaning against the railings, the chilly night breeze sending his tie fluttering and his hair a frizzy mess. Ivan joins his side.

“The last time we were on the roof,” Ivan mentions absently, “you pushed me off.”

“Yeah, well, you shot at us.”

“But I missed,” Ivan reminds. “I could have stalked you out and tried harder to kill you, but I chose to give you a chance to live.”

“Am I supposed to be thankful for that?”

“You are supposed to realise,” Ivan corrects, “that I _don’t_ want you dead.”

Gilbert _guffaws._ “For a man with no heart, you sure get sentimental.” He pushes his hair back. Breathes in, breathes out. Leans into Ivan when Ivan bumps their shoulders together. “How does it feel, to have no heart?”

“Distant,” Ivan admits, “everything is. Distant.”

“Ok.” Gilbert side-eyes him. They are both thinking about the same thing, Ivan knows, that first time Gilbert realises that he has no pulse. “S’weird to not hear anything.”

(It’s the first of many things, and maybe also the last. It’s the first time that Ivan talks to Gilbert about his heart. It’s the first time he has _cause_ to ask, because it’s the first time that Gilbert has the opportunity to find out. It’s the first time he feels Gilbert’s sweaty hair against his neck, basking in post-coital until Gilbert suddenly raises his head and mutters, “Your pulse feels weird,” because no one ever reveals to scientists from the other departments how their seemingly invincible test subjects are made.)

Ivan shrugs. “That’s because it’s beating underneath the floorboards[20].”

“Funny.”

“You never know,” Ivan tells truthfully. Gilbert rolls his eyes - of course he does, he doesn’t know about Ivan’s heart.

Ivan stares up at the sky. The light pollution and the smog is making it nigh impossible to see the stars; they have fallen to the ground instead, humanity creating their own stars because they can’t reach the real ones yet. Time slips like fine sand between the gaps of a clasped hand, a moment and an eternity measured in one, and Gilbert lowers his head.

“Did you know?” he begins, “I used to room with this kid from Taiwan. She’s not the only kid: there are four of us, broke college kids sharing an apartment and shit - and she’s religious, yeah? Flies back every new year and every- what’s it called again - the festival where they sweep the tombs. Also goes to the area’s Chinatown to visit the temple every few weeks.”

Gilbert visibly swallows. Ivan has once felt the movement of it, thumbing Gilbert’s Adam’s apple and feeling the roll of it, the tender beautiful lines of his neck, sharp edges and smooth lines.

“She once told me this Chinese mythology,” he continues, “that every person in the world has their names written in this book of life and death that’s stored away in the Underworld[21]. It will detail your lives and your relationships, your birth and your death - but most importantly, if you manage to change the details on it, you change your fate. You can live for centuries yet never age past thirty.

“And what does this remind you of? The Greek Moirai, right? They control the thread of life and directed the fates of everyone in this world. There is a variation of them in Norse mythology too, called the Norns. It’s like there is this, this universal _order_ of things, and some fucker is controlling them, so if you steal that control from them, you _may_ be able to transform your _life_ and wow. Just _wow,_ what power is that.”

Ivan hums. “Are you talking about cosmology?” The dark circles under Gilbert’s eyes emphasise the sallowness of his face - not surprising, considering how long he’s been running. “Didn’t you call yourself a scientific man? These are stories - folklores and mythologies. The universal order is probably physics.”

“Maybe.” Gilbert presses his palm against his eyes. “But have you ever thought about maybe what we are doing isn’t just science? I mean, science as in the scientific method. For one, we have you -” Ivan nods begrudgingly, “- and if you think about what our facility has been doing - it doesn’t make sense.”

“What was seen as magical and divine in the past is now simply science,” Ivan mutters, “alchemy influences chemistry, and so on. Strip the mystique away, view it from a separate perspective, and what is once surreal becomes something that simply _is._ ”

“Sounds deep.”

“I was inspired by M-theory.”

“Of course you were.” Gilbert chuckles under his breath. “Examining the strings of a cable, huh.”

“It is what it is.”

For a long while, Gilbert just breathes. Breathes like he is about to confess, crack his head apart and let Ivan dig through them for all the answers he ever sought after. Then Gilbert lowers his hands and the moment passes. “Do you think time is circular, or linear? Or both?”

“Maybe it’s neither.”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe time is something that we can’t understand from a three-dimensional scale,” Ivan allows. “I won’t know: I’m never a physicist.” He was going to be a chemist, once. Before that, a doctor, but as he grows up, he finds himself drawn to research and theories much more than real-life application.

But those were a lifetime ago.

“I don’t know too - the world makes sense when only _science_ is in the picture,” Gilbert admits, “but whatever they do to you, it seems that they’ve found a loophole in the universe.”

“A backdoor.”

“Mm, you mean something with that, don’t you?” Ivan opens his mouth to answer, but Gilbert shushes him. “No, don’t tell me - let me figure it out myself by my own interpretation.”

“If you wish.” Ivan can’t _quite_ feel the cold, but he knows it’s getting chillier. He shuffles back, and puts both arms around Gilbert, clings onto him like a human blanket. Tucks his nose into Gilbert’s hair. He smells like diesel and smoke - an era indeed.

Ivan does not count down the seconds it takes for Gilbert to finally lean back into him. “What if we are going about this all wrong?”

“I find that sticking to our existing rules have kept me well and alive so far.”

“Fucking smartass.” He pulls at his cuffs. “Do you think Bianca is right? About free will?”

“I think the universe is full of things we do not understand.”

“We are all science fiction, huh?” He grabs Ivan’s hand, nails digging at the cuticles on Ivan’s thumb. “I wonder how excited Bianca will be if I explain string theory to her.”

“You can try.”

“Nah - explaining a century worth of physics is too much work.” He drops Ivan’s hand. “Maybe doppelgängers are actually time-travellers who went back in time.”

“In the original, mythological sense?”

“Yeah. Doppelgängers, right down to the mannerisms and the memories.”

Ivan considers this. “The only way we can jump into a time so recent that our personality is completely the same, is if we calibrate it,” he reasons, “and I don’t think any facility will pool in resources for such a short jump.”

“Maybe they want to investigate a murder.”

“Firstly, you would have to break into the crime scene _and_ find a secure hiding spot with a good vantage point,” Ivan counters, “and secondly: isn’t it a little sick to go back into the past only to _watch a murder?_ While knowing full well that you could have prevented it and let the universe deal the victim a less traumatic death? Furthermore,” he adds, “you would not be able to bring back any evidence except for your own words. That may not stand up in court.”

“You have thought about this.”

“Before you joined, one of the scientists’ boyfriend was murdered.”

“So it goes[22].” Gilbert rubs tiredly at his eyes again. “Which do you prefer, to know when we are going to die but be unable to do anything about it, or to be able to control how we die but not knowing when?”

“Which one do _you_ prefer?”

“Won’t you like to fucking know.” Gilbert wriggles out from under Ivan’s arms. “Are you going to stand here all night, or do I need to fuck off to the bar?”

And that is Gilbert’s cue that he wants to be left alone and Ivan should leave.

“I’m grabbing some snacks from the bar,” Ivan decides. He starts back towards the stairwell. “Any special orders?”

“Grab lots of fries. And booze. More booze.”

Ivan can’t quite keep his lips from twitching. “You better be able to stay awake during your shift.”

“Damn fucking right I can,” Gilbert retorts, but he knows that Ivan knows, that Gilbert is never a sleepy drunk.

Ivan closes the door behind him and jogs down the stairs. Takes the lift and when the attendant asks for his floor, hesitates before asking for the lobby. Informs the poor receptionist of his order. Wonders about propriety so he borrows a coat from the porter.

The street is dark and stank and very much empty as he treads down them. He hears the sounds of the streets, the drip of water, the hollow clonks of pipes; the scratch of the paradox, the tiny pulses of noise from Gilbert and Ludwig, the deliberately loud footsteps from the alley to his right.

Ivan waits.

“Ain’t it a nice night, Ivan?”

“We’re not on a first name basis.”

“Ah, but I thought we’re past _formality._ ” Ivan turns to face the shadows. “Right, Ivan?”

“Jones.” Ivan smiles. “Alfred. So this is where you’ve been hiding.”

Alfred grins.

  


-

Hey look more footnotes!!

 

[14]White roses, of course, means loyalty, purity and the innocence of a new relationship, and interestingly enough, secrecy. When used in weddings, they also convey hope and/or new beginnings. A single stalk of rose, meanwhile, means love at first sight. Tldr, Ivan is a fucking romantic and it all flies over Gilbert’s head.^

[15]Fur is [very popular in the early 1900s.](http://www.fashionintime.org/furs-fashion-early-twentieth-century/) Ermine is one of the most valuable fur of the day, while wearing raccoon fur was a sudden trend among the boys in the era. Also, psa that the commercial fur industry is bad and i understand that it is warm and comfy, but buy second-hand or faux fur instead yea?^

[16]Walk walk [fashion](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/0e/a8/b5/0ea8b5a3c20b3c92cec7e309f0ca82fb--wide-leg-pants-wide-legs.jpg) babe.^

[17]Dats right, it’s the Italies!! Bianca’s name I got from searching “common 16th cc venetian names female” and stumbled upon a [list](https://www.s-gabriel.org/names/juliana/16thcvenice.html). For some strange reason i really like the name bianca, then figured that bianca rhymes well with chiara, so bianca is north italy and chiara is south.^

[18]Adam Smith is the guy who wrote Wealth of Nations, and is considered a father of modern capitalism (in his defence, his view evolves from an era of mercantilism and Enlightenment). Gilbert laughs because ironically, in the 1930s, the Russians are already communists, and from our modern understanding, communism and capitalism are poised as polar opposite economic theories in the Cold War.^

[19]Hotel rooms can be [ridiculously](https://youtu.be/ej-Kj3BJ7QQ?t=1506) [filthy](https://youtu.be/EcTuhKz5Cgo).^

[20]Ivan references Poe’s [Tell-tale Heart](https://www.poemuseum.org/the-tell-tale-heart).^

[21]Something you won’t find in China but find in many overseas Chinese communities is a consistent folk religion that has successfully assimilated other more established religions e.g. Buddhism. The mythology referenced here does not have any good online sources that I can find, except a mention in the Chinese “Four Great Classics” Journey to the West, wherein one of the title characters, in the immortal words of Wikipedia, “defies Hell’s attempt to collect his soul… [by wiping] his name out of the Book of Life and Death...” and therefore can live forever.^

[22]Gilbert references Slaughterhouse Five again. “So it goes” is said every time a death is mentioned, not because of apathy, but to highlight the absurdity and randomness of death.^

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While trying to complete the final version of this chapter, i dug up a whole bunch of old sin city 2005 screencaps and viewed them as a sideshow repeatedly until i got the ambience in my head, i finished watching netflix’s the end of the fucking world (it’s absolutely addictive after ep3 and the ending is just. ow), has the suckerpunch soundtrack (the movie has its issues but THE SYMBOLISM! THE PARALLELS! Yall don’t understand i just) blasting in the background, and rewatched some of suckerpunch’s deleted scenes because i can’t believe the same guy who directed suckerpunch and 300 is the absolute same guy responsible for the mess that is justice league/recent dc franchise etc


End file.
